


The Lion's Share

by startwithsparks



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Politics, Warrior queens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon-divergent AU in which Tywin Lannister and Arya Stark are married in Harrenhal before the Battle of Blackwater. When she joins him later in King's Landing, Tywin's children, among others, are vocal about disapproval, but Arya is quick to prove that not only does she belong next to the most powerful man in Westeros, but she will more than earn her right to remain there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Since there's been some discussion in comments about Arya's age in this story, I wanted to take a moment to address it. In the book, _Game of Thrones_ , Daenerys is 13 when she's married to Khal Drogo. For the TV series, the character had to be aged up to 17 because of legal standards & practices in the UK, which meant that, to preserve continuity, other characters had to be aged up 2-4 years as well. In this series, Arya is the same age that Daenerys was in the beginning of the books. I hope this clears up any questions or concerns you might have and thank you so much for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before riding south for King's Landing, Tywin and Arya are secretly married. Though neither party particularly want to, the marriage must be consummated before he leaves for battle.

Night had fallen, casting the godswood in eerie, unsettling shadows. It was the one compromise Tywin had permitted his new bride, to marry in sight of the old gods instead of in the crumbling, broken-down sept. Her wedding dress was a black and gold scrap, found among what few possessions Lady Whent had left behind when she fled Harrenhal. The gems that had once adorned the bodice had long since been torn away, most likely sold or sitting in some man's purse, but she was not a bride particularly suited to the glitter of jewels, and he could find no fault in her for that. Instead, she stood silent in her ill-fitting gown, unadorned but for its slashed sleeves and tattered train, solemnly repeating her vows. She was no more moved by the ceremony than he was, though a look of acceptance lingered in her steel gaze.

There were no septons to preside over the nuptials, only a disgraced maester who had been stripped of his chain, but like the bridal clothes, it was all Harrenhal afforded them. There were no rings to exchange, nor a feast to mark the occasion with raucous merriment, only the haunted, bleeding eyes of the heart tree and a hollow understanding between them. What they lacked in ceremony, they made up for in witnesses - knights in crimson armor, men-at-arms and freeriders, captured hostages, and the last dregs of Lady Whent's staff all came out to see Lord Tywin wed to the unmasked she-wolf; all but the blacksmith, who stood swinging his hammer at a breastplate through the night.

It was all the spectacle he permitted, and even this he did out of necessity alone. One cold glance from Tywin told them all that the revelry would go no further than this. If they wished to drink and carry on among themselves, singing their bawdy songs and speculating on the nature of the consummation, they would do so, but well out of range of his hearing and without his acknowledgement. There would be no parade of lewd jeering following them to the bridal chamber, nor any other such common display. Instead, the moment their vows were spoken and the maester laid the tattered strip of white linen across their clasped hands, Tywin dismissed the crowd and led his new bride away to his chambers.

She was no more affected by him now than she had been when she served as his cup-bearer. It wasn't that she was possessed of some noble stoicism or had ice in her veins as was so often said of Northerners, but that whatever fear she may have felt she had already learned to hide behind a mask of defiance. Not only did he respect the skill itself, but he had even grown to admire the moments when her fear turned into fierceness and she forgot to hold her tongue. It was that more than anything that had drove him to offer his protection in the first place, a strength uncommon among so many he had dealings with, and she would need it in order to survive his children.

Her gaze followed him as he crossed the room, his footsteps sounding heavy on the flags. He made swift work of the clasps down the front of his overcoat and draped it across the end of the bed, then sat and tugged his boots off. The only sign of hesitance came when he lifted his gaze to meet her and reached out his hand to her. She wavered then, but only for a breath before she answered, her skirts dragging along behind her. It was a small blessing that this event bore so little resemblance to his first marriage. He remembered his first wife laughing, eager, the laces of her dress already hanging loose by the time they made it to the bridal chamber. But the Stark girl stood uneasy in front of him, poised between his knees, and waited until he raised his hands to undo the laces down the sides of her dress.

The fabric, already hanging shapelessly off her narrow shoulders, slipped free of her limbs with little effort and puddled at her feet. Beneath the wool overdress she wore a linen shift, the piece which trailed hopelessly behind her. She took it upon herself to untie the laces around her forearms and drag the fabric off over her head, leaving her only a thin chemise. She stepped back as he stood, her gaze fixed so firmly that she didn't even avert her eyes when he unlaced his pants and pushed them down to step out of them. An awareness hovered between them, the knowledge that they had no choice but to seal their union before he rode South, or the protection he offered her would be as flimsy as fabric that clung to her body. She had her misgivings, as well someone in her position should, and he certainly had a few of his own as well. It took an incredibly will to stand in the face of such a decision and choose to save themselves over an uncertain road.

He tipped her chin up softly, one finger curled under her jaw, just to see the firelight catch in her eyes. Not even the flames warmed them, an ice so bitter that it matched his own. That was another thing that had captivated him, that there was something more resolute in her gaze than the watery blue that seemed so prevalent among her mother's family. In her there was a ghost of the girl who'd ripped the Seven Kingdoms apart, hiding there behind her gaze and in the arch of her cheekbones. He wondered, in the moment it took to guide her towards the bed, whether this girl had it in her to leave such a trail of destruction behind her as well.

It was with that thought lingering in the back of his mind that he drew her forward, his shoulders pressed against the back of the bed and her knees pinned on either side of his hips. Her resolution flagged again as he slid under her chemise, but she merely canted her hips towards his hand and drew her shoulders back, determined to get through this with as much dignity intact as she could. Her breath caught sharp in her chest as he brushed his fingers along the inside of her thigh, going slowly as much for her sake as for his own. He watched her intently, her lip caught between her teeth, and carefully pressed forward. Her body tensed, eyes squeezed shut, but instead of pulling away from his touch, she pressed her body towards him.

Tywin urged her closer, his hands around her waist long enough to slide her into place. She had overcome the initial discomfort, but it came roaring back, sharp enough to cause another gasp to rake through her lungs. She reached to grasp hold of something and he caught her hands in both of his, carefully lacing their fingers together. She squeezed, nails digging into the back of his hands, knees digging into his ribs, but just as she had before, she started to answer each of his movements in turn, until the faint whimpers slowly turned into heavy groans. He'd found a crack in her foundation, perhaps unintentionally, but there was no way she could hold fast to her composure like this, and in that realization she let go of whatever self-control she'd wrapped herself in before. There was no sense of control at all in her movements, or in how readily her responses slipped from her lips. There was something in that which he responded to as well; there was no pretense, no inhibition, in her reactions. 

He let her cling to him, finding it impossible to deny her such a simple thing. Her hair fell in her face and her body flushed a deep, warm pink, while every stutter and shift of her body on top of his brought him a step closer to relinquishing his own control as well. His was not so easy to dismiss, not any more, but it seemed to matter very little to her when, or how, he would follow her into abandonment. When he did, she seemed so lost in her own efforts that she barely noticed the way he gripped tight to her hands and thrust his hips up towards her. Only a faint whine of protest for the shock of movement gave any sign that she acknowledged it at all. He untangled his fingers from hers and nudged her hand between her own legs. From there she knew well what to do, finishing on top of him with a breathy moan. 

After her body had calmed down, she slumped forward against his chest, squirming enough that he slipped from inside her. He stroked her hair as he waited for her breathing to return to normal, then deepen, and finally fall into a steady rhythm. He made no attempt to move any more than it took to tug a blanket over them, and wind his arms around her narrow waist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the city is safe from siege, Tywin calls his household, including his young bride, back to King's Landing.

Arya felt sick. She couldn't tell if it was the litter lurching uncomfortably around her or the sight of King's Landing looming increasingly closer that caused the knot in her stomach to twist and churn angrily. The journey from Harrenhal had taken almost a week, with the Lannister household in tow. For the better part of it, Arya had her own horse and rode with the attendants and grooms halfway down the column, but just after midday on the final day, with the walls of King's Landing slicing across the horizon, one of Tywin's guards rode down the line to escort her to a covered litter. She didn't ask why they insisted she rode the rest of the way hidden from view, nor had anyone thought to impress it upon her, the danger of being seen riding with Lannister men was clear enough already.

She'd left the city praying to find home, and the journey back had only proved to her how unreliable these southern gods really were. It was Winterfell she had prayed for, but Winterfell had fallen, and her brothers with it. They were just children, they didn't deserve what had been done to them, but it had happened nonetheless. She had tried to keep her mind from wandering, but every night since the rider arrived with news blacker than she had ever heard, she hadn't been able to close her eyes without seeing Theon standing over Bran and Rickon, that sharp smile of his sliced across his face. She thought she heard the howls of wolves in the distance as well, shrill and mournful, but that had only been a dream as well. She could no more bring them back than she could bring her father back, and there was nothing she could do now but press onward and hope to survive.

Tywin promised his protection, it was the only promise he had made her, even if it meant protecting her from his own children. Even then, when she still had something to go home to, she had known that it was her only real chance. She became Lady Lannister that night, and as the sun dawned the next day, her husband rode away to defend the capital from Stannis Baratheon's fleet. With that threat now dashed on the rocks of Blackwater, he called his household to the city, and Arya found herself dreading the return to the Red Keep. Every place was filled with ghosts now - her father, Syrio, Jory, even Septa Mordane and her father's guardsmen. While she couldn't forget that it had been Lannister men who'd killed them, she knew where to place the blame - with Cersei and Joffrey - and she could only hope that Tywin proved to be a better man.

They stopped at the gates to the city, long enough for the city watch to speak briefly with the head of the household guards. The litter then lurched forward again, hooves clicking steadily on the stone as they advanced. The knot that started to form in her gut earlier twisted violently, working its way deeper and tighter into a nervous ball of tension. She wrapped her furs tighter around her shoulders, though she hardly needed them in the southern heat, the chill of foreboding washed over her. Arya tucked her legs up under her and curled further against the cushion; she didn't so much as dare to peel the curtain back for fear that someone might see her. It would do no one any good for rumors of another captive Stark girl to start swarming through the city.

It seemed like it took ages for them to reach the Keep, winding through narrow streets, slowed by the press of smallfolk. But eventually the column split, some heading towards the Tower of the Hand, others towards the stables, the kitchens, a hundred different places, like scurrying little ants in an ant-hill, all with their own tasks to perform for their queen. The litter finally came to a stop as well, under the shadow of the towering keep, and a moment later the guard that had brought her there opened the door for her again. Anxiously, she took his hand and let him help her down, the fur still tight around her shoulders. It was warmer yet in the city than it had been on the road, but she felt she still needed it to hide her from the pressing, curious gazes that followed her as the guard shuffled her onward.

He said nothing as he drew her through the lower corridors, back through twisting passages and archways, towards the courtyard at the back of the keep. In the windows were perched golden Lannister lions, casting the room in an orange glow. Waiting for them at the base of the stairs stood a young woman with blonde hair tumbling in tight curls down her back.

She had all the features of a Lannister - the wheat-colored hair and deep, lively blue-green eyes - and at her waist she had a small lion's head brooch pinning her gown closed. She couldn't have been much older than Sansa, fifteen at the most, but she smiled in a way that Arya couldn't ever remember her sister smiling, at least not since they left home. The guard gave the young woman a nod, and another to Arya, then turned on his heel to make his way back to the outside. There were more important matters to attend to than the new Lannister bride.

"Lord Tywin is in a small council meeting," the girl said, taking a few steps forward, her hands still clasped in front of her. "I'm Calla."

Arya chewed her lower lip, reluctantly sliding the fur from her shoulders. It seemed ridiculous to cling to it now that she couldn't use it for something to hide behind. "Are you a Lannister too?" she asked.

Calla smiled, "Of Lannisport," she nodded. "A distant cousin of little consequence," she offered casually; most likely the words had been uttered in her presence so often that she thought it better to say them herself, "but Lord Tywin thought it would make you more comfortable here if you had someone closer to your own age to attend you. He doesn't trust the ladies in the queen regent's service," she said, with a small, sly smile that reminded her of the Imp.

Cleverness was a Lannister trait the same way heartiness was for Starks, and while Arya didn't know the history of the Lannisters of Lannisport as well as she knew that of the main house, their words came to her easily.

"Wisdom Breeds Wealth," she murmured, and the girl smiled at her, bright as the morning sun peering over the horizon.

"So it does," she nodded. "I've had water brought up for a bath and fresh clothes," she held out her hand towards Arya, "You must be exhausted after your trip, not to mention everything else you've had to endure in the past few months."

Reluctantly, she handed over the fur and ran a hand through short, messy hair. She hadn't really been able to bathe since leaving Harrenhal. There were always a half dozen guards and ladies standing around watching her whenever they stopped to make camp. Arya didn't mind being naked in front of other people, or being around other naked people, that had never bothered her; what unnerved her was the way they watched her, like she was nothing more than a parcel that needed delivered - a _thing_. She didn't think that the virtue of being Lady Lannister afforded her any luxuries, but the only people who'd ever looked at her like that had been Rorge and Biter, and she didn't like the feeling. So she clung to her dirty clothes and lingered near the horses and their grooms, finding more solace with them than she could anywhere else.

Calla folded the fur over her arm and led Arya up the long, winding staircase. It seemed a lifetime since she'd last walked these winding steps, and yet it was almost completely the same. The falcons of House Arryn were gone, replaced with the roaring lion of Lannister, blue and silver exchanged for crimson and gold, but otherwise it seemed that things were much the same as they had been the last time this tower served as her home. But for all it looked the same, it didn't hold the same wonder it once had; she didn't feel as small within these walls as she had before. Whether that was a blessing or not, she couldn't say yet.

The girl led her up through the bedchamber, still bursting with trunks and boxes yet to be unpacked, into a small room off the wardrobe. There was a large wooden tub, draped in gauzy white fabric, and a small table with perfumed oils, soap, and salt the color of new rose petals. The smell, faintly heady, clung to the back of her throat and reminded her of the pools at Winterfell, with their water so hot it was nearly unbearable, and the salt so thick that it formed a snowy cloak over the stones. None of this had been here when her father was Hand, but he didn't have the same taste for luxury as the Lannisters did, and she wouldn't have known what to do with it even if it had been imposed on them. All she'd known was the barren simplicity of the North, and now it intertwined with the warmth and indulgence of the capital, like the tendrils of steam and the faint scent of roses twisting through the air around the tub.

Arya drew in a slow breath and looked over her shoulder at Calla, "Thank you," she offered, only because she had no idea what else to say.

She smiled back, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "It's what I'm here for," she said with a soft nod. "I'll leave you to your privacy. Call if you need anything."

Calla closed the door behind her, leaving Arya alone in the small antechamber. She didn't mind the solitude, however - it was a nice change from being surrounded by the constant buzz of activity. She quickly peeled off her clothes - too-tight shoes that had once fit her, smallclothes that had all seen better days - and stepped carefully into the tub. The water seemed to suck at her limbs, drawing her deeper, until she was nestled inside with her knobby knees drawn up to her chest and the water already cloudy around her arms. She wrapped her arms around her legs and settled her chin on her knees, all too aware of how easy it would be for her to fall asleep here. There had been too many fitful nights, some with only a moment or two of rest, since the last time she was in this tower, but she knew the moment she closed her eyes, everything she'd been trying to keep at bay would come rushing back to her. She reached for the soap instead and dropped her knees against the side of the tub.

Arya scrubbed until her skin tingled, until she'd washed away every speck of dirt from under her nails and the soles of her feet, and along with it the memories of Flea Bottom and Harrenhal. By the time she was finished, her flesh was ruddy pink from the heat and the sting of soap with its faint grit of Dornish clay. She worked the soap through her hair, fingers dragging through knots and tangles under the water, scrubbing at her scalp with her nails until she was satisfied that she couldn't possibly get any cleaner. It was only then that she wrung the water from her hair and stepped out of the tub, dripping water on the flags while she reached for something to dry herself with.

She tried to clean up after herself as much as she could, putting the stoppers back in the little jars of oil and sweeping the salt back into its little crystal dish. She wiped the water from the table, and neatly hung her rags where they could dry, before turning her attention to the stack of clothes waiting for her. The stockings and smallclothes were a little loose on her under-fed frame, but she would grow into them. A dark shirt with lightly billowed sleeves hung to her hips, a slash down the front cutting to the center of her chest bone. Instead of skirts, she found pants, simple dark pants that fell midway between her knees and ankles. She tied the laces snug around her calves, then pulled on the soft brown boots that had been left as well. Finally, a narrow bodice in red with delicate gold embroidery that laced up the front was all that remained. It curved under her chest and stopped at her waist, the back coming to a tapered point near the base of her spine. It all fit her well, better than the scraps of clothes they'd found in Harrenhal, and though she still felt comfortable in them, she also looked more presentable than she ever had in borrowed boys' clothes. These were made for a woman's shape, but even still, the knowledge that she wouldn't be forced to play a part she hated settled easy on her shoulders.

By the time she stepped back into the bedchamber, the faint draft of the other room had been extinguished, replaced by a warm crackling fire and the smell of spiced wine. Calla was waiting for her at the table near the window, her hands clasped around a small box. She smiled when she saw Arya, her skirts swishing around her legs as she rose.

"Crimson suits you," she said, nodding to the bodice.

She'd barely noticed that it was done in Lannister colors, though somehow it didn't seem to make much of a difference to her. Arya tugged absently at the front of the shirt and shrugged. "It fits well."

Calla nodded and beckoned her over, pulling out the chair so she could sit. "Lord Tywin just returned," she said, brushing her fingers through Arya's short hair. "Or I assume so, for all the racket his guards were making in the small hall. They're not subtle, those ones."

Arya snorted, "And they're not very graceful either."

She heard Calla bite back a laugh of her own, "So I've heard."

She twist the sides of Arya's hair back and lifted the lid on the box. It held a small collection of hairpins and combs in all shapes, some with brightly colored stones, others carved from bone or wood. Calla took a narrow pin topped with a smooth, round crystal, and slipped it into Arya's hair to hold the twist in place. She did the same on the other side, letting a few strands loose to frame the girl's long face.

"There," she said softly, clasping the box closed again and folding her hands around it. "Would you like me to come with you, or..."

Arya shook her head, "I know my way," she said.

She knew that wasn't the answer to the question Calla had asked, not really, but she didn't have to say that she would rather be alone for it to be understood. Frankly, she had to wonder if the girl didn't have something she'd rather be doing than fussing over her. While she appreciated the thought, whatever comfort she might have garnered from having someone her own age - or Sansa's age, at least - near her, was replaced with a distinct discomfort at having someone tend to her in such a way. Part of her felt like she'd rather just have her sister with her, the way things used to be. But things _weren't_ the way they used to be, and they would never be that way again. She wished that knowledge made her feel something - sad or angry - but she didn't feel much of anything.

She offered Calla an uncomfortable smile and tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears, then quietly excused herself from the room, leaving the door open behind her. Her boots murmured softly on the steps as she made her way down to the hall below. The clang of armor and sounds of Lannister men had died down enough that she wasn't the least bit hesitant in striding past the guards and through the heavy doors into the small hall. One of the tables had been set with food and drink - jugs of wine, plates of bread, cheese, fruit, and hunks of meat - and at the head of the table, Tywin sat with his unwavering gaze focused on a bit of parchment in front of him. The sound of her footsteps caused him to glance up, and he gave her a brief once-over before folding the parchment and setting it aside.

"I take it you found everything in order?" he said, pushing out from his chair and rising.

Arya shrugged and trailed her fingers down the edge of the table as she moved. While the memories of her father had been effectively banished from the other rooms, there wasn't much that could be done here. There were Lannister lions in the windows instead of the falcon of Arryn, but everything else remained the same. The reprieve was that her father had loathed this lofty room, and spent as little time in it as possible.

"I like it," she offered, glancing down at her clothes.

He nodded, "I thought you might. But there's one thing that's missing."

"There is?" she furrowed her brows, wondering what she'd managed to overlook.

Instead of turning his attention towards some detail out of place, Tywin reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a small gold ring, with a garnet so dark it was nearly black. She'd almost forgotten that there were supposed to be rings, and stared at it for a moment before she finally, uncertainly, offered him her hand. The ring slipped easily around her finger snug enough that it wouldn't slide off. She held it up to see it glint in the flickering torch-light, but instead of seeing a shimmer of red, it seemed to suck in the light and grow even darker. A small smile worked its way onto her face, even though she had never been fond of jewels things like that, it was simple enough that it suited her.

Tywin sat back down again and reached for a bundle of thick fabric on the table next to him. "I believe this is yours as well," he said, sliding it across to her.

She knew what it was before she even touched the fabric, and her hands had never felt more eager for anything in her life. It was the only thing she had that tied her to home and when it was taken from her she felt as though she'd lost part of herself with it. She quickly unwrapped it, taking Needle in her hands and cradling it the way one might a baby.

"My Needle..." she breathed.

Tywin hummed, his gaze sharp as it lingered on her. "One of my men returned it the morning we left, presumably because he knew if I ever caught him with it I would leave him in the black cells to rot."

That made her grin. "I can keep it, then?"

"You must," he answered, leaning towards her, his arm resting on the table, "Visenya Targaryen certainly kept a sword at her side, didn't she?"

Arya bit her lip and nodded, attempting to hold back the smile that tried to fight its way onto her face. It was no Dark Sister, but Needle meant everything to her now. She leaned down and pressed a swift kiss to Tywin's cheek, her hand resting on his shoulder for a moment longer, and pulled back in time to catch the surprised expression vanish from his face. She unwrapped the belt from around the sword's sheath and fastened it around her hips, where it hung securely against the side of her leg. The leather had been bleached enough by the sun that it seemed to compliment the gold thread in her clothes, as though it was meant to rest there.

"You'll need a new one," Tywin said, as Arya sat down on his right, "but there's no reason you shouldn't have that one until then. It may be better for you to have your own protection." He paused and quirked an eyebrow subtly. "You _do_ know how to use it, don't you?"

She shrugged, "Well enough."

"Good," he pushed himself up from the table again, a moment after Arya too heard the clatter of guards and footsteps beyond the doors to the hall. Tywin rest his fingers on the edge of the table, poised like elegant daggers at the ready. "You may need it."

The doors swung open, battering on their hinges before swooping back in on themselves. The guards at either door stepped forward, stopping the doors from closing as Tyrion hurried along a few long paces behind her. The queen regent's face was set in stern, cold determination, as she strode towards the table, the only sound the soft swish of her skirts. The expression on her face was so severe, so unyielding, that Arya wondered if she'd already heard whispers of what her father summoned her to say. By the time the doors to the small hall closed behind Tyrion, Cersei was already at the foot of the table, a demand dancing on the tip of her tongue until she saw the girl sitting at her father's side.

A sneer passed across her face and Cersei's gaze narrowed, "What is _she_ doing here?"

Tywin canted his head subtly, just enough to cast his pale gaze on his daughter. "I was under the impression that she was meant to be here," he said. "Which begs the question, why did I find her in Harrenhal?"

She didn't bother answering the question, or the accusation that lingered between his words. Instead, a look of satisfaction - victory, even - glimmered in her eyes. Cersei raised a hand and motioned, "Guards!"

The guards didn't even flinch. But Arya stood, slowly rising from her chair with the faint grate of wood on stone. She rest one hand on the hilt of her sword and the other on the table near Tywin. Neither one said a word, which only seemed to infuriate Cersei further.

She whipped around and stared down the guards, "What are you fools waiting for? Take her somewhere she can't slip out of again!"

"I don't believe you can give that order anymore," Tyrion interjected, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he hoisted himself up into a seat near Arya. His gaze fell on her hand and the ring shining darkly on her finger. "Should I offer you two congratulations or sympathy?"

"Your discretion will be enough," Tywin answered dryly.

Cersei's cheeks paled, only to bloom again into a violent, angry red. She took a slow step towards them, then another, " _What_?" Her gaze pierced straight through Arya and bore fiercely into her father's chest, unable to even look him in the eyes.

Tywin breathed a long suffering sigh and motioned for Cersei to sit. While she didn't move, the token gesture was enough for Tywin to be absolved of any rules of hospitality. He took his seat, hands folded neatly across his lap. Arya remained standing, however, her gaze as unwavering on Cersei as the woman's was on her. This was no different to her than the plays for dominance among the dogs she'd grown up with. Cersei could stare her down as long she wanted, but Arya was unmovable. She hadn't been afraid to challenge Cersei when she was queen, and she wasn't afraid to challenge her now - especially not when she was so sure she'd win. The tension between them strained tighter by the moment, and since someone had to be the first to speak, Tyrion was more than happy to fill the silence. It seemed that his sister's uninhibited anger only made him more pleased with the situation.

"It seems, dear sister..." he said, reaching for a glass and the wine, "that our father has found himself a new wife."

"I know what our father has found, you imbecile," Cersei spat. "What I can't seem to understand is what provoked him to marry some filthy little wolf bitch."

"That's _Lady_ Wolf Bitch," Arya said, which was probably not the most mature thing to say, but Cersei had always been able to drag forth the rawness in her.

Cersei's attention snapped towards her, the hatred gleaming openly in her gaze. "Traitorous little-"

"No," she interrupted. "My father was the traitor, remember? You made that clear to everyone. But my father was also a man of honor." She leaned forward, the muscles in her arms and shoulders straining, hungry to pounce, "I won't make the same mistake."

Next to her, Tywin lowered his head, shielding what dared to be a smile, and reached over to cover her hand with his own. "That's enough," he murmured, though some strange note of fondness seemed to lace the nuances of his voice. "Cersei, sit."

For a moment, Arya was uncertain if Cersei would comply, but the longer Tywin glared at her, the more her resolve weakened until she finally, with all her unwillingness still intact, she moved to sit in the chair nearest to her. Tywin pat Arya's hand gently, then pulled his own hand back to fold in his lap again. She hooked her foot around the leg of her chair and pulled it forward again, dropping down to sit as well. Suspicious as she was of the queen regent, however, she still didn't take her eyes off Cersei for a moment.

"It can still be annulled," Cersei said, her resolve unbroken, but the anger in her voice tempered somewhat.

Tywin shook his head, "It won't."

"Surely you don't intend to play this farce out?"

"I wouldn't," he said, "if it were a farce, but I'm quite serious about this. You seem to be doing everything in your power to lose the North, and someone has to make sure that you and your son don't undo centuries of political gain on a the whim of an impudent boy."

"Joffrey is the king!" Cersei asserted.

"And I am the king's Hand, and your father."

"Do you have any idea what Ned Stark said about us? About _your_ family."

The comment was meant to sting, but Tywin barely blinked at it. "I know," he replied, "the entire kingdom knows, and _had_ known, from what I've heard. But don't think for a moment that I'm going to punish myself for your trespasses or allow you and your brother to destroy what I've worked so hard to maintain. If either of you had learned to use the discretion you were taught to have, then none of us would be in this mess in the first place. You've left me no other choice than to clean up after the two of you, as I've been doing your entire lives."

Cersei fumed, but said nothing. Tyrion, however, glanced between his sister and father, and grinned as he took a swift gulp of wine.

"Well, I for one think it's wonderful!" he said, the cheerfulness in his voice slicing through the tension without destroying it on either side. "But I do hope you don't expect me to call you 'mother', Lady Star-ah, Lady Lannister."

Arya stared at him for a moment, playfulness glittering in his mismatched eyes, then grinned back at him. "Arya is fine," she said.

Tyrion thumped his glass on the table and shifted forward in his seat. "Arya, then! I feel obligated to offer you a wedding gift. Do you like books?"

"Of course," she smiled, casting a glance over to Tywin who had momentarily stopped glaring poisonously at Cersei and was looking fondly at her instead.

"Excellent," Tyrion wriggled down from his seat and shoved the chair back in. "Why don't you come with me, and we'll see if any of my books suit your tastes. I think my sister and father need to yell at each other more and it would be best to leave them to that without an audience, don't you think?"

She shrugged, "I'm entertained."

Cersei scoffed and Tyrion chuckled, "As am I," he said conspiratorially, "but you know my father..."

True enough. She didn't think Tywin particularly wanted either of them there while he tried to cut through all the complexities of this arrangement with his daughter. She glanced over again and Tywin nodded softly, holding out his hand for her as she stood. She gave his hand a subtle squeeze as she stood and crossed around the back of his chair to join Tyrion on the other side.

"Have dinner with your sister," he said. "Tyrion knows where her rooms are, he'll show you."

She smiled and nodded, turning back just as Tyrion offered her his arm.

"I have a wonderful volume of letters composed by Queen Nymeria's generals," he said, ignoring the way Cersei glared at them as they left. "But I don't suppose that would be anything you'd be interested in..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Tywin is trying to calm Cersei's newly-ignited rage, Arya and Sansa finally get to see each other again.

Arya had never imagined that she would be in a position where she would be glad for Tyrion's presence next to her. But he was good company, chatting with her about the history of the Red Keep and the notable lords and ladies who had lived there before, all the way up the winding steps of the Red Keep, while she struggled to keep hold of the small mountain of books he'd gifted her with. In addition to the letters of Queen Nymeria's generals, he had given her a couple volumes on military strategy from Aegon the Conqueror's time, and an impeccably-illustrated book of rather racy stories about Visenya Targaryen. Most of them were pure speculation and rumor, he said, but there was an art to crafting the perfect thread of infamy that every lady ought to acquaint herself with. The last was a thin sliver of a book, bound in cracked black leather, about the sordid history of Harrenhal, allegedly compiled by Lady Lothston herself, complete with the details of her deadliest poisons. That was the book that Arya was most eager to read; though stories of her childhood heroines called to her, something about the sudden turn her life had taken made her hungry for the secrets it held. 

She had always thought that being a lady meant rules and rigid lines, being tethered to some lord, little better than any other piece of property. In the ballads that her sister had so often swooned over, it was hardly ever a prince that won his lady's love, but the rogue, the bard, the mysterious stranger who promised to free her from that life. Little by little she was starting to understand that being a lady didn't necessarily mean being lady-like. She held in her arms so many stories of ruthless women who refused to be defined by the roles they were thrust into, and as much as she now wanted freedom and happiness for her own sister, she wanted to be able to seize that power for herself and remind everyone that the Starks also knew how to repay debts. She didn't fool herself into thinking that Tyrion had unwittingly placed that knowledge at her fingertips; it seemed clear to her that they had, in many respects, a common enemy, and friendships had been forged on much less. 

When the finally reached the landing in front of Sansa's chambers, Tyrion tipped his head back and glanced at the guard standing outside the door - who, in turn, paid a skeptical, scathing glance towards Arya before rapping so hard on the door that the metal latch shivered in its place. There was a soft scurrying of footsteps from within, then the door dragged open. A woman with dark hair and darker eyes stood with one hand on her hip, scowling until she looked down and saw Tyrion grinning devilishly up at her. She let out a soft sigh, which revealed entirely too much to Arya, then looked to her. It seemed that gazes had a way of lingering on her a bit longer than she was comfortable with, and Arya tried to make herself seem taller, at least, as she stood under the scrutiny. The woman finally smiled at her and ushered them both inside, reaching out for the stack of books Arya had been holding protectively in her arms.

"Let me take those," she offered, "I can bring them to the Hand's Tower while I see Lord Tyrion back to his chambers." 

Arya had been about to protest before she caught the faint smirk on Tyrion's crooked lips and bit her tongue. The offer was no doubt genuine, but it seemed that the woman had other motives as well. Far be it from her to keep them from it. She watched the woman tuck the stack of books between her arm and the neat curve of her waist, then led Arya through the small entryway towards a larger room just beyond. 

Her heart raced, and Arya found herself far more nervous than she had expected to be. Seeing Sansa, even the little glimpse of her from around the corner, set her nerves on edge again and she felt suddenly tongue-tied and uneasy. Sensing her apprehension, Tyrion reached out and rest a hand just above her elbow, catching her attention. He winked at her, the expression equal parts hilarious and unfortunate with a chunk missing from his nose, then reached to offer the other woman his elbow as well as he was able. At least, she thought, she wouldn't have an audience for this. 

From where she stood, she saw Sansa tug a shawl tighter around her shoulders and then turn away from the table to glance towards the doorway. 

"Shae?" she asked, still unable to see Arya around the corner. "Who was it?" 

Arya chewed her lip and rest her hand on Needle just to brace herself, then stepped forward. "It was me." 

For a moment she wasn't sure if Sansa even recognized her, but then the older girl rose slowly, soft fabric the color of lilacs falling from her shoulders, and nearly stumbled over her skirts in an attempt to rush over to her sister. Arya barely had time to steel herself for the embrace before the air was knocked from her lungs by her sister's enthusiastic hug. 

"I thought you were _dead_ ," she heaved against Arya's hair, still half a head taller than her. 

"That was the point," Arya answered, her words muffled by her sister's shoulder. "And I will be if you don't let go of me so I can breathe." 

Reluctantly, Sansa pulled away, her bright eyes glistening with the threat of tears, even though her cheeks were still red and streaked with the tracks of those she'd already cried for her brothers. Her hands gripped tight to Arya's shoulders, as though she were still unsure if it was really her sister was really standing there in front of her. "But-" she began, "if you were free, the why did you come back? Did they catch you? Are you a-" her voice dropped to a hushed whisper, "a _prisoner_ as well?" 

They were all good questions, but unfortunately Arya didn't have good answers for any of them. Instead, she pried one of Sansa's hands off her shoulders and dragged her sister back towards the table. "I'm supposed to be having dinner with you," she said, "I suppose that means we have time to talk about it." 

She was being intentionally elusive, but Sansa didn't seem to care about anything other than having her sister with her again. For a girl who had professed to hate her utterly the last time they saw each other, Sansa seemed to have forgotten in an instant all the ills Arya had caused her. They would come back, she was certain of it, and they may come back sooner than expected depending on how tactful Arya could be. She tucked a few loose strands of hair back into the now not-so-neat twists at the side of her head, and reached anxiously towards the flagon of wine at the center of the table. She wasn't overly fond of wine, but it was something to do with her hands, a way to stall for just a moment longer.

"I tried to go North," she said, "but the Mountain's men caught us and brought us to Harrenhal. Even then," Arya shook her head, remembering Jaqen and his last words to her, "I could have gone far away, and been safe, but I would have never seen my family again. Neither that nor going North and risking being killed by the Mountain's men or bandits or anyone who might have thought they could benefit from it seemed like the best idea. So I chose to come back, and live, for a while longer anyway. No, I'm not a hostage," she was quick to add, "I'm..." not a lady, never a lady, but she had to be something. Arya didn't have the words to explain everything the way she wanted to, so she merely held up her hand, the ring flashing for a moment in the candlelight before the glint disappeared into it's endless black depths. 

It took Sansa a moment to realize exactly what she was looking at, a gasp slicing through the air between them when she finally did. She grasped Arya's hand and tugged it closer, into the candlelight, a look of bewilderment striking across her face. "But, _who_?" she asked.

Arya pulled a face and eased her hand out of Sansa's grip, sliding her shoulders up in a deep shrug. "Tywin." 

Sansa blinked, then shook her head like she was trying to rattle the information into place. "Lannister?" she asked, incredulous. 

"You're handling it moderately better than Cersei..." 

Sansa pressed her hands over her mouth, "Oh _gods_ ," she breathed. "You _did_. You're not making this up." 

She shook her head, "Why would I make it up?" she asked. "He was there in Harrenhal, him and all his men. For a while I don't think he knew who I was - or if he did, he was willing to let me keep lying about it. I really do think that I could have left and he wouldn't have cared one way or another about it, which as strange as it sounds is one of the reasons I said yes. He was the only one who wasn't after me." 

Though she dropped her hands from in front of her mouth, Sansa still looked utterly stunned, but there was a vague expression of understanding that had started to slide into place. "Only you," Sansa shook her head, "would marry someone _because_ he didn't want you." 

Arya couldn't help herself, she snorted, then quickly covered her face with her hand, trying to stifle laughter behind it, which only made Sansa burst into giggles. It felt good to laugh again - to honestly laugh - and with her sister as well. She never thought she'd missed that sound, but for once it wasn't Sansa laughing to mock her, as it had so often been before. As the sound of their laughter died down, Sansa reached across the table and wrapped her hand gently around her sister's hand again, as a soft look of curiosity passed across her features.

Sansa dropped her voice to a soft whisper and leaned in towards Arya, "What did Cersei do when she found out?"

"She looked like she might burst into flames," Arya grinned. "It was sort of funny, really - not that Tywin thought so, but most of the time he has the sense of humor of a boulder. But," she shrugged, "they're _discussing_ it." 

Her sister furrowed her brows delicately, "Can it be annulled?"

"No," Arya shook her head, "he made certain of that. There's nothing she can do about it now, but I'm sure she'll find some way to make it more difficult than it needs to be. She acts like it's some sort of an ungodly crime, that he may as well have married a wildling, but I think the part that really galls her is that she had control over it, and Cersei has always seemed like the kind of woman who needs to control everything," she shrugged, "but that doesn't mean she gets to control me." 

Sansa frowned, "She's the queen."

"Queen regent," Arya corrected. "And soon Joffrey will be married to some other unfortunate girl and then _she_ will be the queen. I'm just glad I came back to find out that girl wasn't you." 

She watched Sansa blush softly and ducked her head, russet-colored curls sliding into place to frame her face. Arya knew as soon as she mentioned Joffrey that the conversation might become terse, but she knew no other way of expressing that she thought her sister had always deserved better than some spoiled prince. So much of her annoyance since they set out from Winterfell came from watching her sister, blind to what a monster Joffrey was, act like the sun shone solely for him. Now that she was free from him - though perhaps not free from the Lannisters entirely - she should be glad for it, rather than looking like her entire world had been crushed under her. That had already happened, when their father was killed in front of them both, and no pain and anger should ever eclipse that event. But Sansa still acted like she had lost something and it was everything Arya could do to bite her tongue and keep from telling her how ridiculous she was for it. Those few short words were all she afforded herself for the moment, and she would be more than happy to leave it at that.

When her sister looked back up at her, there was a look of understanding strung between them, perhaps not an apology offered or accepted on either side, but a moment of shared knowledge that no more needed to be said. Sansa leaned forward and pushed a platter of soft cheese, bread, and mushrooms towards her sister. Arya glanced at it briefly, her hand wavering, then reached forward for a chunk of honey-soaked bread. 

"You know," Arya offered, tearing a corner of the bread off, "I think you and Cersei have a lot in common. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to get out of here before it consumes you the way it did her."

Sansa shook her head, "But what about you?"

"I can take care of myself," she replied, "the trick is to stay alive, right? I have a better chance of that with Tywin than I've ever had with anyone else."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle of wills continues when Cersei poses and ultimatum and Arya must rise to the challenge of being the new Lady Lannister.

The walk back to the Tower of the Hand was almost startlingly familiar for her, winding halls and stairways lit only by flickering torches ensconced along the walls. As much as she had tried to purge the memories of Syrio and her father from her mind, they flooded back to her on that walk, with Needle on her hip and her shoes scuffing softly on the stone. She was no longer a little girl chasing cats through the halls, she didn't even know if she could find that kind of freedom and happiness in her anymore, and it was futile to try to grasp for it where it couldn't be found.

Arya leaned heavy on the door to the bedchamber, trying to make as little noise as possible as she slipped inside. On the way South, days had started to melt slowly into one another, and it became hard to tell where one began and the other ended, or remember how many times she'd slept. Even now, she found it difficult to believe that so much had happened in one day. Surely it had to be two, maybe three days? Everything felt unsteady, unreal, and she hadn't realized just how tired she was until she slipped inside. The room was lit only by the soft flicker of the fire burning strong in the fireplace and a faint sliver of moon hanging low in the sky beyond the huge arched windows. She found Tywin sitting up in bed, his attention focused on a stack of parchment laid across his lap. He glanced up when he heard the door shut behind her and started carefully arranging the paper back in order.

"Don't mind me," Arya said, reaching to undo her belt and lay Needle on the table. 

He gave her a brief nod and settled back again. "How did you find your sister?" he asked.

Arya shrugged, and started working on laces and buckles to get out of her clothes. "As well as she can be, given all that's happened." It wasn't hard to see the sort of strain Sansa was under, with the constant scrutiny and abuse she'd suffered under Joffrey's hand. Sansa had told her everything over dinner, through distraught tears, not a cross word omitted. It did little to quiet her rage, but what difference did a candle make to a bonfire. "Before we left Harrenhal, I had thought to ask you to send her back to our mother," she said, pulling off her boots, "but she wouldn't be any safer there."

Tywin looked up, his brows raised slightly, "Why's that?" 

"She can't go back to Winterfell," Arya said, "there's nothing left. I don't even know where my mother is anymore, but wherever it is, she'd be no less surrounded by people who just want to use her as a pawn in this war. At least I got to choose, but Sansa..." she trailed off and draped her belt over the back of a chair. "There was a Frey boy, a squire, at Harrenhal who said that Robb and my mother made an agreement with Lord Frey for Robb to marry one of his daughters and me to one of his son, this squire, whoever he was. And I thought, if I killed him, then I wouldn't have to marry him. That might have been the easier decision." 

"Don't worry about Lord Frey," Tywin replied, turning his attention back to his papers with a thoughtful expression. "He's an old man, and easily appeased. So long as your brother keeps his end of the deal, the Freys will be happy with what they get or they'll get nothing." 

It wasn't as simple as that, she knew, but Tywin made it sound so easy. The Freys were supposed to be loyal to the Tullys, but she was beginning to understand that everyone had a price and the Lannisters were always willing to pay it.

"What if he tries to offer them Sansa, though?" she asked. "She'd be as much of a hostage there as she is here and twice as miserable. There isn't any place that's safe for her."

"There might be," he said, "and I see no reason not to see to your sister's well-being, now that I have you."

Arya snorted and tossed her pants over the chair with her belt. She didn't believe that Tywin had only taken her as a hostage. Political leverage, maybe, but not a hostage. He wouldn't have had to marry her if that was all he wanted. But if that's what he had to tell himself to justify it, she wasn't going to question his methods.

"But you must know," Tywin continued, "There are no promises that can be made that would hope to save your brother from what's been started." 

_What's been started_ , she thought. It was a clever way to phrase things, neither taking blame nor placing it. She couldn't imagine he was trying to be kind, or spare her feelings. But it was hard to say when this started. Surely the rumblings were there before Joffrey had her father executed. Robb was just trying to do the right thing, the way their father had always taught them. And maybe it was the right thing, but that didn't mean that it was worth the consequences. She knew that Robb wouldn't find any honor in backing down when they had been so utterly wronged, and if what they had already lost hadn't convinced him that this would only end in more tragedy, nothing would. 

"I know," she said, sliding into bed next to him, "but he thinks he made the right decision and he'll see it through to whatever end it brings." 

"Does that bother you?"

"I saw my father killed," she replied. "Nothing will ever compare to that. And though he's my brother, and I would love to see him storm the city and kill everyone in it, what do you think the chance of that is?" 

"None," Tywin replied.

"Right," she said softly, perhaps even a little sadly, but she tried her best to keep that from taking over her voice. "Why bother hoping, when there's nothing to hope for. All I can do now is make sure my sister is alright; she's all the family I have left now." 

He stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to figure out how such pragmatism could come from such a little girl, but where her brothers had always listened to their father's lessons, Arya _understood_ them. The North was a world of harsh lessons, which a strong man had to face whether he wanted to or not. Her own desires held no sway over the reality of that life, and they held even less here in King's Landing. Time and again those who promised to protect her had been ripped away until she was forced to accept that the only person she could trust for her own safety was herself. She wanted to trust Tywin, she wanted to believe it when he told her that no harm would come to her, but she had been taught that such hope was feeble and the gods did what the gods wanted to do regardless of the will of man. In the past that might have made her feel helpless, but even that was an emotion she couldn't find within herself anymore.

"You know the only way this war will end is with your brother's death," Tywin said finally. 

"I know," she said. 

With a faint sigh, Tywin reached over and rest his hand on top of hers, squeezing gently. "We are cursed with the burden of family," he said simply, and Arya understood what he meant more plainly than anything.

She shifted and pressed herself against his side, her cheek against his arm for a moment while he put his documents in order and laid them aside. Tywin wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. Touch was still something she wasn't entirely comfortable with, but the sense that he was no more familiar with it himself helped as she pressed herself against the sturdy line of his side.

"Should I even bother to ask how your talk with Cersei went?" she asked.

"As well as could be expected," he said dryly. "She insists on making a spectacle of everything, which is a trait I fear she inherited from my father, and hardly a redeeming one at that." 

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Arya muttered. 

"She would see us properly married, in the sept, rather than - as she put it - a dilapidated heathen ruin."

Arya's brows furrowed, "Did you tell her-"

"She knows how seriously Northerners take their old gods," he said, "but it hardly matters to her. No, I said nothing of the sort, only that it was not a choice that rest solely in my hands and that she would accept whatever decision was made." 

She rest her head back against his shoulder, allowing her eyes to fall closed for a moment. She wasn't exactly eager to bend to Cersei's demands, no matter what they were, but there was a glimmer of opportunity and Arya wasn't sure if it was enough to make her willing or not. She and Tywin had one important thing in common, not only the simplicity in their logic but the simplicity in their tastes. And regardless of what people might have thought of how coarse and unrefined she was, the politics of court were not lost on her. Cersei wanted to back her father into a corner, show him the shame in what he'd done by forcing him to recognize that he wouldn't put it all on display for the whole kingdom to see. It made Arya look like a pawn and, perhaps worse, like a secret. She knew that she would never be the kind of perfect, poised lady that Cersei or Sansa was, but that didn't mean that she should be kept in the shadows as though Tywin had something to be ashamed of. 

Arya dragged her lower lip thoughtfully between her teeth, "Okay," she said, "I'll do it. On one condition." 

Tywin seemed genuinely surprised by that. He pulled back enough to look down at her, brows knit into a tense line. "Which is?" 

"If Cersei wants to make a spectacle of it, then let her," she said, carefully choosing her words. "But all the final decisions are mine, and that includes the dress. If I have to wear a dress, then I'm going to decide what it looks like." 

He stared at her, his gaze as scrutinizing as her own was unwavering, then finally gave a terse nod. "Fair enough," he said. "And you won't have to wait long to start making those decisions. She's insisting on having her personal dress-maker sent up in the morning."

Arya glanced up at him, "Do you suppose she thinks that wearing a dress is the worst thing that's happened to me?"


End file.
